Last Time
by Jellicos
Summary: They meet, have sex and go on their merry ways. It's how it is and Kate knows it will never be different. But how can she help but fall in love with CJ Cregg? Femslash!
1. Last time

**Last time**

**Pairing:** CJ Cregg/Kate Harper

**Note:** Stand-alone sequel to "In the wake of war."

**Disclaimers:** I own nothing, this is pure kidnapping and drive by traumatizing. Aaron Sorkin will have his ladies back in more or less the same state once I'm done.

I eat reviews for breakfast.

* * *

You said it was the last time, the night she cornered you in her office. You said you wouldn't play that game of sneaking out her door in the cloak of darkness anymore.

When you wake up alone you decide again not to let her get you this time. You promise yourself not to allow her to peel off another slice of your heart.

And you keep your convictions all morning, until your eyes meet in the oval office. Over matters of national security and the fate of thousands of uniformed lives, you discover that she already has your heart wrapped up in her pocket.

You think maybe this is why you hurt, because of the bleeding, hollow rip where your heart used to be.

Her passion inspires you and you jump on her train of thought with pure enthusiasm as your starting off point. With her heart and your knowledge you fit each other's sentences perfectly with barely a breath in between.

When the Commander in Chief goes with your plan over that of his men in uniform, she smiles proudly and you wish you still smoked.

You excuse yourself along with the grumbling men who never really liked you in the first place because you have the soft heart of a woman. But it doesn't matter. She's going to be in a good mood today and you know you'll be rewarded later. And you ignore the little voice that cries out about lost convictions, because it always fades away with her smile.

And when she calls you to her office you do not hesitate. You do take a detour to borrow some of Ginger's perfume though.

She greets you with the confident smile of recent victories, her steps so light you'd think she was once a dancer.

When she looks at you, her eyes convey promises of what is to come. You feel yourself tingle under her gaze because you know that look and you know she won't be gentle with you tonight. She'll make you beg.

You love days like these.

So you play professional, almost indifferent, ignoring her long, raking looks and low voice. It drives her crazy; you can see it in her eyes. And for a second you feel in control.

You know that you're not. You know that the second she decides she's done playing; you will not hesitate to give in to her every need.

But for now, during office hours, you play the game. And you do it well.

"Have drinks with me tonight." It's not a question and she barely looks up at you from her papers as she speaks. She knows you don't have other plans, and she knows that if you do, you'll change them for her.

"What's in it for me?" You can't help but keep playing and your answer does get her to raise her head up to look at you.

Her face changes from surprised to amused in a second, and your breath catches as her expression grows serious and her eyes rake ruthlessly over your body as if in search for food.

"Do you have objections?" She asks, raising one sharp eyebrow and you notice her voice has already dropped a notch.

It's when she meets you eyes and you see the darkening shade in them that you quiver in your seat. You know that as soon as you agree she will dismiss you back to work. But there is nothing else you can do as her eyes never leave you when she starts biting at her lower lip.

She's breathtaking.

So you shake your head once, and for a fraction of a second you think she might have smiled.

"Excellent." But as she speaks you know you're fooling yourself again as her head bows back down to the lucky folders on her desk. Her voice sounds as professional as the dark suit she's wearing.

You've been dismissed. But you chance a lingering look at her tall, slim frame, your eyes trying to memorize the texture of that silky smooth skin on her neck and the back of her knees. She fits perfectly behind the dark oak desk that once belonged to one of those old men whose picture hangs with the others around the White House. And this is when you realize you'll never mean more to her than this desk.

With a sigh you leave her to her work.

It's never crossed your mind to say no to her. Not for real anyway. Not as she's standing in front of you, cocking her head ever so slightly to her side as she watches you. No, you never even play with the thought of turning her down then.

Now as you go through the motions of your everyday work, everyday for you not for anyone else, you wonder why it is that you never tell her no. You know your life would be so much easier without her in it.

She doesn't know how you feel; you thought it better to never let her know. It would just annoy and upset her, she'd tell you she didn't want to hurt you and that this complicates things.

You don't want to complicate things, there is too much of that going on already.

She needs company, compassion, to feel less alone for a few hours of her excruciatingly long day. You are in love, and you know it.

"You should tell her." Leo once said. He doesn't get it. You can't just tell her, she'd never see you again. You'd never get to touch her like that, hear her whimper from your kisses or watch her writhe beneath you ever again. No matter how hard it is, these are the things that matter to you when all hell breaks loose in the situation room. And when there is talk of an upcoming war, as it sometimes is, your eyes instinctively search for hers, to make sure she's not afraid, to let her know it will be alright.

But she never returns your gaze; her focus is always on the grey haired man to her right with the President seal on his chest. You find you are glad that the CIA does not know how to read minds, and if they did you would know, because your thoughts would sometimes be considered treason.

She is the right hand of the President and yet you cannot help but envy the attention she lavishes on him.

It's not him per say, you always liked him. He's a good man with good values, but he's holding your lady caged by his knee and for that you get a bitter taste in your mouth whenever you're in his presence.

In the CIA you had a knack for disguises. Disappearing into a crowd was a skill your superiors found to be a great resource. And now you cannot help but wonder if this is why she never looks at you like that, if her lack of attention your way is a result of your skills of camouflage.

To think that it could just simply be because she doesn't love you is too harsh a reality to face.

You ignore the fact that she has never made love to you. Not that you would ever complain. The sex is always amazing, but it's never making love, it's sex, sometimes it's fucking. There is passion and desire, when she touches you it's rough and determined. Kisses are limited and for the sole purpose of arousing. When you come, she holds you, but after a few moments, she lets you go. The closeness smothers her she says, and you believe her.

You're never as rough as she is, you take your time and revel in the way she moans your name. You could listen to her like that forever. There is a point when she's so turned on and not that far from release that you know she'd do anything you wanted just so you'd set her free. Sometimes you play with the thought of telling her, right then and there. But you never do, and the reason is the same as the secret; because you love her.

You know she wants you, that the sight of you releases waves of desire within her and makes you think about turning religious, but you cannot help thinking that this might just be all it is; desire. She wants your body and talent; she wants your hands and mouth guiding her to that blissful state of surrender. You fear she has no interest in your heart, and somewhere you know it to be true. But it doesn't stop you from fighting the never-ending lost-cause battle for her affections.

The days are always the longest when she's not around and you find yourself wishing for some kind of mild national security crisis just to see her face.

But today none is within sight and CJ Cregg's day has been completely focused on politics. It's not your field, you really don't care who's opposing what bill and why. There are bigger issues to fight the way you see it, but still, you have some understanding of her work.

You've walked by her office a few times this afternoon, and you wouldn't give the reason even under torture. Pathetic is never a word you'd thought of to ever describe yourself, but this is exactly how you feel after your forth rout past her office.

You never saw her, she's a busy woman. Unfortunately the one person you did see was Toby.

You always liked the grumpy speech writer, until you saw him in a room with her. It was in his eyes, clear as daylight. You should have known you wouldn't be the only one to love her.

Maybe it's the possibility that it could be reciprocated that bothers you.

But the glare he sends your way makes your heart lighter. The mixture of fear and loathing in his eyes lets you know without a doubt that he regards you as a rival.

You quell the urge to tell him how delicious her skin is, to gloat with the knowledge that you've made her cry out in release and that she begged you too. Not him, never him.

Instead you give him a polite nod and keep walking.

The remaining few hours of the working day you spend buried in every piece of work you can find. Anything and everything to keep you focused on something other than how her scent makes your knees go weak. Instead you make time for excessive discussions with Hutchinson about things you really neither like nor care that much about. Arguing with him makes thing easier. And he's all too willing to help you out in that department.

When her scent fills your nostrils you decide you've finally crossed the line of insanity and you need help not to turn into one of those people whose emails have a special filter in CJ's mailbox. And you know she has a filter that goes directly to the secret service; you made sure of it yourself.

But your sanity is saved by Hutchinson ironically who looks up over your shoulder with a nod of his head.

"Am I disturbing?" You can't help but smile, but you repress the urge to wrap your arms around her slender waist and whisper in her ear how the sight of her face brightens your existence, how much you've missed her presence.

Instead you settle for twirling around and casually cock your head to the side.

"No, not at all." You say sweetly and you can feel more than see the Secretary rolling his eyes. And you know CJ is uncomfortable, she doesn't like not being in the power position, especially around military men like Hutchinson. She feels the need to prove herself in a man's world, and she doesn't believe you when you tell her she already has. So you decide to let her sweat, if only for a second. She owes you that much, you reason, but you know that's not true.

"Ready?" She asks and you know by the tone in her voice and the way she's already heading for the door, that you are in trouble for this.

"Yeah." You say your goodnights to Hutchinson and the staff before grabbing you coat and bag. You assume CJ will be waiting for you up in the comfort of the West Wing. She owns the West Wing; around here she's just a visitor.

As you walk your nerves decide to kick in, so does your second guessing. This is the time your mind and body pick to assess the choice you're making.

You've been doing this for a few weeks now, going home with her, occasionally having a drink, but most of the time you never get further than in her door and to the nearest flat surface.

But every time, your legs start to shake ever so slightly and your stomach starts to tingle. You'd think that in your line of work nerves would not be an issue. She's proved you wrong on that one.

Yet your mind keeps intruding on your self-deprecation with questions you don't want answered. Questions about motives, both hers and yours, and as you reach the top of the staircase you heart makes a final soul searing plead for its safety.

You ignore it. You tell your heart it has itself to blame for putting you in this situation to begin with.

When you reach the lobby you see her standing there in her beige overcoat signing a paper in an excessively large stack of folders in Carol's arms. For a moment you stop. The sight of her makes you want to run and hide. You know it's your blood pumping organ speaking, pleading with you one last time. But your legs refuse to move.

As she turns to face you, there is no choice anymore. Limb movement or not, your body is drawn to her and you find it both appropriate and incredibly absurd to think of yourself as the moon in her orbit.

You walk a step after her on your way out only in the hopes of catching a whiff of her perfume before it mixes with yours.

_Thank you so much for reading! __3_


	2. Lost convictions

_This is a short section, a bridge between the days if you will.  
But I hope you will still like it, and let me know wether you did or not;)  
Thank you too cpneb, dolphin18paradise and Sapho's daughter for your kind words and the smile they brought to my face.  
This is for you._

Love,  
Jellicos

_--------------------------------------------------------  
_

This time you really did go for drinks, in the singular sense of the word. It was all the pretence you could muster; one drink, trying to prove to each other but more to yourselves that what you were doing was legitimate, more than it really was.

You still don't know why she goes through the charade, stalling from the inevitable while heated glances and tension so thick it could burst a plane at its seams, are exchanged across the table. You feel it to be cruel and harsh, the way she swirls her glass in her hand as she gazes at you, how her eyes hold more promises than you'd want them to because you know it's just the heat of the moment.

She likes the hunt; at least this is the conclusion you draw. As she takes you out for drinks and possessively glares at the expressionless suits that occasionally try to focus their drowning eyes on you.

It's a fantasy between you two in that moment, a sideways dance around the object of desire. You toy with the thought that it turns her on to not be able to touch you or completely control you in that moment, and as the heated glances turn into desperately subtle touches and she drags you home, you find that you were right.

She never says anything in the car, she never has. It's as if the suddenly so pliable presence of her human shields are not only guarding her body. The barriers they put between her and the public seem to shrink when she's inside that metallic confinement and wrap themselves around her being.

She sits on the other side of the backseat, watching the road vanish in front of her eyes. The first time you saw her like this, you had to convince yourself it wasn't because of you but the secret service. Now you know it's a little bit of both.

You wryly think that the same restraints would not be present if you were anyone else. And you are sure the sight of her pressed so closely to the thick metal door is not one you share with Toby.

For him, she'd put on a show, a façade of wits and cleverness you so rarely see these days. It's the CJ Cregg who two years ago would draw you into your television set where she was directing an orchestra of dozens of waving ink-stained hands. It's the Chief of Staff that charms and persuades men of self-deluded power to dance to her song.

With you she is never forcefully clever or witty, and now as you watch her finger trail over the cold, invisible shield against the outside darkness, you wonder if she lets everyone share her silence.

At first you thought the quiet bothered her, that sound soothed her over-worked mind. Now you know it's not true. And you find yourself quietly asking if she lets you see her silence because she doesn't care or if it's the opposite.

She never asks you up anymore.

As the faceless suit lets her know there is no harm awaiting her on her way to bed, you let your eyes follow her long legs as they slowly stretch out of the car.

And you follow.

Like a faithful pet you follow in her wake, watching her move as if her long muscles hold the secret to all your hopes and dreams.

With a heavy heart you realise they could if she'd let them.

You don't make it in the doorway before she pulls you in. Those first nights, the secret service reacted to the initial loud thuds as she slammed you against the door. Now you can almost feel them smirking to themselves as your back hits the door and her lips make a hungry attack at your neck.

You can always tell by her day how your night will be, and before your mind loses the ability to connect silent words together into thoughts, you reflect on how right your assessment this afternoon was. She's nowhere near gentle.

But she doesn't make you beg. Instead you feel your heart soar as her pleading voice whimpers your name, along with utterly undignified impetrates for satisfaction.

You wish you could deny her, tell her you'll trade her release for her heart. But it's the look of desperation and trust in her eyes that crumbles everything but your desire to comply to her every need.

You never made it to her bedroom. Instead you sit on the cold kitchen tiles next to a table that will never be what it was before, and ignore the way the hard surface hurts your naked skin. She lets you hold her and you think that maybe, just maybe, this time she'll ask you to stay.

As you gently pull the sweat soaked strain of hair from her forehead, you watch her catch her breath, marvelling in the feel of her arms clasping at your body as if she was still falling of that edge. And you notice that her perfume really has mixed with yours.

She's shaking and you wrap your arm around her, noticing not for the first time that her slim body is withering away from too much stress and too little nutrition.

Her head is resting on your chest as she sits next to you and for a moment you think you might have dosed off as you feel her soft lips so lovingly pressing against the wet skin over your breast.

It's in the next moment, as her body shifts away from yours that you know you weren't dreaming but caught up in a fleeting moment of, well, you'd guess gratitude.

As she stands you know she's heading for the shower. She doesn't speak, but you know she doesn't expect to see you when she's done.

And again you sneak out in the cloak of darkness, just like you swore you'd never do again.

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_You know, I really think I deserve a pat on the back for the lack of cliffies in this story;) Or maybe just less yelling;)  
Nah, feel free to yell, it's disturbingly incouraging._


	3. Remember today

_Remember today_

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It is the fine layer of crispy frost on the windows you'll remember most about that morning. You'll forget the mantra you chanted in your mind since you stepped in your door the night before, her scent still coating your skin as a finely crafted veneer.

As you awake that morning and notice the soft, white flakes on the edges of the old glass you've already made up your mind.

You spend your morning shower convincing yourself it is the only thing to do, but you know the real trial will be her smile.

So the drive to work is longer than ever before, yet you feel you arrived far too soon. And you wonder if there is any way you can avoid being eye to eye with the President and his Chief of Staff, while somewhere you secretly want to see her face, see if your convictions hold.

You wonder if it makes you masochistic, but you settle for deciding it is a form of closure only her piercing green's will give you.

As soon as you walk in the heavy white doors, past the uniform who lazily semi-lifts its head to catch the view of your badge, you realise you won't have to wait for that green-eyed confirmation. The man walking towards you has a posture that is much too stiff to allow him the appearance of many years spent in the service, yet you are sure his back wouldn't be as arched if his chest wasn't reflecting that much light from the many multicoloured badges.

"Commander Harper." He greets you with urgency and a shaky salute so you waste no time letting him trail behind you to the silent walls of the situation room.

You will not remember the frost on the windows after all.

This is where you shine, where your voice carries as if everyone around you is paying extra hard attention just to grasp every nuance of that you are saying. Your movements are fluid as you rush from backlit computer maps to papers and folders, listening to harsh language on a secure telephone line while giving out directions to uniformed men you're not sure you know the names of.

There is a strong current moving the work along and you know you're the one with the large wooden pole that trails the raft away from the rocks. But as the heavy wooden doors are swung open, everything seems to freeze and you think to yourself that you just stuck your pole too far into the thick riverbank mud at her entrance.

You stand, not so much for him as for her. His voice is commanding, and you can detect the hint of fear in it. You quell the urge to smirk, refuse to accept that you just enjoyed noticing fear in the voice of the Commander in Chief. But you do put some extra urgency into explaining the situation to him, telling yourself it has nothing to do with letting her know that you are on top of this while he isn't.

She doesn't react as you pull that pole out of the muck and continue to guide them all down the fierce river. You know they are both imbibing your words, silently racking their brains to grasp the situation. All you attention is upon him as you try to will your mind not to read her eyes, or your thoughts to wonder how she's coping.

But there is no way you'd ever be able to ignore the looks she's giving you. You know she's frightened and her silence is not from shock as much as it is her ways of refusing to let the men in the room know she's scared.

Your chest gives a pleading squeak as to draw your attention to the desires your heart is voicing, but you push it aside, angry with its continuous tries to hurt you. It cries for your attention to fixate on her face, but you can't. You've made up your mind and seeing her like this will break your persuasions.

Opinions are exchanged over the most secret table in the free world and you answer her questions with an air of utter professionalism.

She always takes your side over Hutchinson's or Alexander's because you don't feel their need for excessive military violence and she can't sleep with the thought of sending people to their death.

Before long, the conversation limits itself to the two of you with the Commander in Chief listening intently as he sits between you, the barrier that holds you both within your shields.

The Chairman knows that when she starts agreeing with your every word, his focus must shift from his own beliefs to your strategy, but the Secretary still huffs his disgust as the President nods his approval for your plan.

Decisions made, she asks for a word after the man of the hour leaves a void at the end of the table. You can't deny her the time of the Deputy NSA and you know from the way Hutchinson's voice grows darker into the phone that he is best spared your presence until he gets past the lack of force in your planned retaliation.

"Is this going to work?" Her arms fold around her waist as you close the door between the two of you and the busy military. You know by the way she's avoiding your gaze that your words in there shook her more than she's admitting, and you feel comfortable in reassuring her under the protection of your working title.

"I think it has a fair shot." You know her well enough to be honest but not detailed in your answers. She knows that there are risks involved in these negotiations, but she's never asked you what they are; her sanity rests upon knowing no more than she needs to.

You repress the urge to still her restless arms by backing a step away to trap your tempted hands between your back and the steadiness of the thick basement wall.

As she nods her head at your words, you brace yourself for what you are about to do. You know by the way her eyes linger on your body a few seconds more than is appropriate that she will be requesting your presence tonight.

This is why you press your back further against the wall, making sure your hands are not moving on their own, making sure your body remembers pain. It's the reason your eyes shun hers like the intense glare of the sun and it's why you turn your body slightly away from hers as she takes half a step towards you.

"Let's skip the drinks tonight." You pretend you don't hear the slight change in her voice, how it dropped just a fraction more at her words. Your body acts the traitor as it starts to pull into her orbit and you have to drag your hands across the rough surface of the wall to punish them for remembering how hot her skin is under your fingers.

"I can't." Is all you offer her as you force your legs to move towards the door, threatening your limbs with promises of brutal retribution if they do not obey your request.

Even with your back towards her, you can feel her raising her eyebrows at your words, her mind not grasping their vague context.

"You can't skip drinks?" She asks and you're somewhat surprised at her lack of deductive reasoning. It's certainly not a trait you'd ever associate with her and you start to wonder if the crisis in the room behind the door affected her more than you realised.

You need to leave, to outrun the temptation she presents so you force your body to remember its state as she left you on the kitchen floor last night. It's the penalty it receives for tingling from the scent of her perfume.

"They need me inside." You don't feel the wood under your hands as you push the doors open and leave her standing on the other side; your body is too preoccupied with processing the ludicrousness of your choices and the first lie you told her.

So you sit there, at the table were decisions of life and death are formed, with your head in your hands wondering if there was any logic in refusing the offer of tasting her heat. It's a thought you can't shake, a doubt that gnaws on you for the rest of a long day, until the phone call comes and your mind fills with the prospects of new chances for peace.

You get to tell them, take the grateful thanks of a relieved president and his staff. You pride in the way her face lights up as you tell them both that the negotiations worked and for now there are no direct threats of destruction.

He tells you how he loves quick and peaceful resolutions and you know that none of you are fooled. You didn't win a victory; you bought a few days by taking a huge risk. But the twinkle in her eyes makes you think of battles won. That is until reality strikes you down when Margret pokes her head in through the adjoining door to tell her employer that Danny called yet again.

You thank the redheaded secretary for her professional expression, but the smile on the President's face makes you decide to excuse yourself before you think thoughts you would never forgive yourself for lending time to, especially in the oval office.

Before you can make your escape, she calls you to her office as she reaches for the phone.

You stand there for a second, wondering if she knows what she's doing to you, if she understands the wounds she's inflicting on your heart by asking you to witness her conversation with a man she once shared herself with.

But leaving is not an option, you know she'll use her professional stature if she needs to, and you need to move because you're standing in the office of the President.

So you thank the head of your country for his time and make your way into the room you've wanted to avoid the rest of your time in this house.

Sliding the door shut, you position yourself as far away from her and as close as you can to the exit, not making yourself too comfortable but sitting on the edge of an armrest.

She's still on the phone, flipping through some papers which to you indicate that this is not a social call. Her voice is professional and strained, the forced wittiness edging to the surface and you try to suppress the smile that is tugging on the corner of your lips.

"No, I… Danny, I…" She sighs dramatically as he interrupts her again and you can't help but feel relieved and somewhat gloating at the fact that he's annoying her. "I can't tonight, I have plans." You feel your heart rate pick up at the possibility that he just asked her out and you chose to hear that she didn't tell him no but that she couldn't make it this night.

So you stand up, making a gesture towards the door as her eyes search for you and you feel the desperation build in your chest as she shakes her head, holing up her index finger in a silent plead for you to wait just a minute longer.

You sigh, but make no attempt towards the door. The civil war in you is fought by your heart against your mind, but you're consciously avoiding listening to their arguments.

You listen to her ending the conversation with not much else said between them. She left it open and you know why; she needs to know there will always be someone she can rely on to make her forget. The consequences of your choice become vividly clear as you realise how easily she'll replace you. It's the thought of his hands on her body; his lips were yours have been that will keep your sanity from winning.

"Give me ten, and then we're out of here." She lets her eyes follow the curves of your body as she hangs up the phone. Her voice conveys her exhaustion but none of the desire you see in her eyes.

"I can't." You'd think you'd have come up with a better reply by now, but instead you recite the words that she didn't understand the first time. She wants you to go home with her, to kiss you, touch you, and you feel your body start to relent to the temptation again.

It's the prospect that you can touch her that is the hardest. But this time, you know your heart cannot take another beating, so you listen to its despairing beseeches for mercy.

You feel your heart crumble in your chest as she barely looks up from the papers she's trying to force into her over packed briefcase.

"I thought you were done for the day?" She's surprised and she doesn't understand your meaning. But you can't find the strength to explain it to her.

Right now the only thing you have to lose is your dignity and around her, you don't care about that. Somehow you think it might be easier if you tell her, if she knows how you feel she won't put you in this position again. But the emotional strength to get through that kind of revelation is more than you possess at this time.

So you opt for the only path revealed to you; to flee.

"I am." It came out to real, and you know that your voice sounded as broken as you feared as she stops her forceful jamming of papers to look at you.

She sees you, for the first time since it all began. You know it from the way her surprised expression turns into a state of disquietude when you refuse to meet her eye.

"Kate…" Her voice is reaching out for you and you're not sure you'll be able to hold onto your persuasion much longer.

You do not dare to look at her as you whisper your wishes of a good night and you make your exit before she can stop you, or your determination falters.

And now you know it's neither the frost on the windows or the negotiations of peace that will signify this day in your mind, but the look on her face when she finally saw you.

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	4. Filed Memories

**Filed memories.**

When you're really tired you get the strange idea that maybe the papers on your desk found a way to procreate under the dim light of your desk lamp. They seem to be never-ending and it's when you're sitting in your office at one in the morning with nothing else to distract your mind from the thoughts of her, that the thoughts of how those folder bound sheets increase in numbers without your knowledge.

It's been a quiet few days, and for the rest of the world it's a good thing when the Deputy National Security Adviser has little to do. You however find yourself to be torn on the subject. The obvious benefits of peace aside, you know perfectly well were your ambivalence comes from.

You can tell that it's raining out from the sound of tiny droplets of water hitting the window that is so high up on your wall it almost touches the ceiling. Not being able to see the rain is the worst thing about having your office in the basement. But right now, having as much privacy as the White House allows, and the distance between the military offices and the West Wing, overweighs anything else.

You doubt she's even noticed that you've been avoiding her. Neither she nor the man whose right hand she plays has had any reason to visit this part of the building.

You are disgusted with yourself for wishing she'd notice your absence, for hoping she'd care why McNally was the one briefing her and the President yesterday instead of you.

And somehow, even if you knew all this, because you knew this was how it was going to be, you hate yourself for feeling rejected all over again.

So you sit there, in your basement office behind the secure protection of the Situation Room, pretending to read self-begetting memorandums with content you could care less about, simply because the emptiness in your apartment is much too thought provoking. The last thing you want to do right now is to think.

This is why you welcome the soft knock on your door and silently ask whomever it might be to please come in and give you something else to focus on, because after several days, those memos simply aren't working anymore. Aloud you settle for a polite reply of 'Come in' but as the door is hesitantly swung open, you desperately wished you'd gone home instead.

"Long day?" Her voice is too breezy, too carefree to really be hers.

"Yeah." You stay with the simple answers because you know she'll grow tired of having to dig for the information and walk out. Silently you curse your body for giving a not nearly subtle jab at the thought of her leaving.

So you ignore how the warmth spreads in your body at the sight of her, you tell yourself you don't notice where her skirt ends just around her knees, or how exquisite her neck looks when she pulls her hair back like that.

She doesn't speak right away, and you try not to watch her as she walks along the walls of your office. You know from the way she moves that she's had a tiring day. Her shoulders are slouched and she trails the tip of her feet behind her ever so slightly while her fingers glide listlessly over the texture of your walls. It wasn't a bad day, her demeanour is different then. This is more along the lines of simple matters turning into hour long heated discussions over party politics.

"Same here, Harley stiffed us on the tax-thing." She divulges, proving your theory right.

"I'm sorry." You offer, pretending to read your file because it's the only way your eyes won't glue to her exposed legs.

Her presence drives you mad, and the battle within you is getting out of control. You want to scream, shout, and a big part of you wants to do it naked underneath her.

"Did you need something?" Your voice is polite, but your meaning is not lost. Your chest is stabbing at you for your rudeness, but quietly, your heart is sending it's gratitude for the pain spared.

"You think I don't notice?" Her voice is forced, and you can feel her hesitation even with her back still towards you. And even if you're not sure what she's referring to, you know where this conversation is headed. So you brace yourself before you answer as casually as your voice will allow you.

"Notice what?" You don't look up, but you hear her turning to face you.

"That you've been avoiding me." The sudden frankness is so uncharacteristic that you feel your eyes rise up to meet hers. It doesn't take more than a second before you realise your mistake, but it's too late, she has you.

"I miss you." She almost whispers as she looks away, and you feel your treacherous heart jump at a declaration it reads far too much into.

In a vain attempt to keep it captive, you wrap your arm over your chest and around the back of your neck. You can't do this again.

"CJ…" You choose her name as you plead for her compassion, to relent the attacks upon your naïve and wounded heart. But she doesn't hear the cry for surrender, or maybe she doesn't care.

"Your touch, the taste of your skin…" She moves closer and your eyes flutter shut at her words. It's when you realise you cannot deny the affect she has on you that you decide you'll have to change your tactics. Your body is pulling up the memories of lust filled nights, displaying them as a presentation for the argument of relenting to her requests. "The way you cry out my name…" She's advancing on you and you stay frozen to the floor, as if her words have poured concrete over your legs.

"CJ…" You voice your argument in tone, her name just the ship to carry it to its destination. But somewhere on the way, it sinks.

"Why are you fighting this?" She wonders as her feet bring her close enough to you to let her hands wander up your arms. The feel of her fingers against your skin adds sound to your body's slideshow of memories.

"Please…" You beg, your face being the only part of you strong enough to avert from her gravity.

"Please what?" She hisses huskily as she closes the remaining distance between you. Its then, as your lower abdomen involuntarily gets flung into a summersault, that your limbs remember the pain she caused them, and decide for once to take your lead.

"No." It's but a whisper of the panic that is etched into your being, but it shakes your feet into remembering how to move.

You don't look at her as you pull away, hiding in the safe sanctuary behind your desk. But you feel her eyes on you, you know she's confused.

Not knowing were to go from here, how to endure the torture of the moment, you force your gaze down onto your desk, waiting while she struggles to find words to hurt you with.

You're not ready for it when she turns and walks out the door, it was too sudden, too real, and her absence brings too loud a void. Hurt, you think to yourself that she could have left something nicer behind when she strode off with a piece of you stashed in the pocket of her jacket.


	5. Crushing Doubts

**Crushing Doubts**

_She will smile, I promise:)_

_-------------------------------------------_

He's frightened, as the powerlessness overwhelms him, she wheels him in. She sits silently while the leader of your country draws analogies from his daughter's childhoods, ignoring the glazed looks of the short-cut men who feel such behaviour is not suited in this room. But she doesn't care what they think, she knows how he works and she lets him talk until the quiet words 'yes, sir' are spoken with more meaning than anyone but the two of them comprehend.

It's when he quiets down and gets back on track that you feel your resentment towards him and their relationship grow in your chest.

You have no claim on her and since you turned her down she won't look at you. In this room she speaks to your uniform, with professional respect for you title. But the high-tech situation room is the only place she directs her words at you, using the decorated men and backlit maps as shields against your gaze.

You thought it would be easier if she was angry with you, that the distance she puts between you would help your heart to heal. Instead you find yourself break at the emotionless looks and fake smiles.

Since the first time she stepped foot in this room, you've dreaded this day. You knew she'd react, you knew she'd take the responsibility of the thousands of lives you are talking about risking, and place it on her own shoulders.

You'd always hoped that when this day came, you'd be allowed inside, to lift the heavy log off her shoulders and shield her from her own condemnation.

But it's in this moment, as you see her covering the pain in her eyes when you tell her just how many young men and women it would take to serve your cause under gunfire, that you realise she will never let you see her cry again.

You brace yourself for her absence as you close in on an agreement, but it still catches you off guard as she leaves with him the second after he gives his order. It's not how they tend to work; the Commander in Chief gives his order and leaves her to work out his lose threads.

This time she doesn't stay behind, you know it's because of you and it makes you feel sick to your stomach.

You want to call out for her, cry her name so she'll turn and gaze lovingly upon your frame. But you know that if you do call on her, she'll turn with a raised brow and an expecting 'yes.' She'll call you 'commander' and she'll want a professional reason why you called out her name as she was leaving your domain.

You don't have one. You just want her to stay.

So you say nothing, just watch her leave and feel your chest grow numb as she snatches your heart with her.

You bruised her ego and she won't let you forget that.

Instead you make sure someone finds out what kind of overcoats the soldiers would be wearing while sneaking up on enemy youth and making sure their parents get caskets for Christmas. The Commander in Chief wanted to know about the coats, it was the one thing he could wrap his mind around at this stage.

So you find out, knowing he will not care once you tell him. By then he'll have gathered his wits and figured out the situation.

You hate yourself for it, but you can't help but like a man who is so thrown by war he needs to make sure the boys and girls aren't cold while carrying their guns overseas.

When you bring it too him, she is nowhere in sight. You'd hoped she would be, but you know it's easier when she's not.

It's rare, getting a moment alone with the President without her as the shield that protects him from projectile information.

He's frank and candid with you, much more so than he usually is. He's scared and he knows you'll understand. And you know he needs to talk to someone on this side of the matter, because unlike him, you don't have to go back to your family and pretend you know nothing about an upcoming war.

He says its decisions like these that make him wonder if he made the right career choice. You know he wants to say that its secrets like these that make him feel so insufferably alone he wished he'd never taken this turn in his life.

You know this is what he wants to say, because this is how you feel, and he sees it.

So underneath the quiet exchange of understandings, you offer useless words of comfort and reassurance.

When he thanks you, you know it's not for your time and updates, but for the thing he can't put into words.

You walk out of the oddly shaped office, feeling lighter on your feet, but not light enough to avoid colliding with the young man who is much too enraged for his age. You always thought nothing could get him too wound up; Charlie learned to filter his information as the personal aid to the chattiest leader of this country.

But he's close to being cracked open by heavy fumes of anger, and though you wonder what might have lead to this state, you know better than to ask. His muttering is just loud enough for you to hear, and you don't have to wonder who the 'she' is that has put him in this state.

It's worse than you thought. She gets like this; you've seen her snap at people for no other reason than things gone awry in the sit room.

But you know this time it's different as you catch a glimpse of her right hand man slamming his folders much too forcefully onto a nearby desk. He's rarely on the receiving end of her anger, and when he is, he knows better than to let it get to him.

So you use this as pretence for taking the slightly longer path past her office to your destination.

At first glance there is nothing out of the ordinary to catch your attention; her doors are closed, the room is silent, but you do notice an unusual lack of people walking past, as if they've chosen to take a detour not to pass the lion's den.

You decide not to read too much into it. That is until you peak in the door to where her odd redheaded buffer is an ever-present shield against unwanted visitors. At first you cannot see her and you can't understand why it feels so odd to see her desk empty. It's when you notice the brightly-dressed assistant ensconce herself behind the back door that you really start to worry.

"Margret!!" She flinches at the shouting of her name and you worry because she's never before raised a brow at having her name used as a cry of frustration before.

You can hear the firm sounds of shouter's footsteps from inside her closed office and you quickly make your retreat, knowing that your face will be the last one the Chief of Staff would want to see.

As fast as you can without looking like you're in a suspicious hurry, you quickly make your way down to your memos and thought consuming work. You tell yourself she doesn't want you help, that you're not welcome, but your mind refuses to stop searching for options.

----------------------

It stays with you the rest of the day. You catch her gaze for a few split seconds over the discussion on missiles. In the immobility of your lips, your eyes cry out your need and she turns, her now glazed eyes focused completely on the man on her right, the man who decides the fate of your soldiers.

You've thrown caution to the wind in your silent communications with her eyes. It's safer to show your longings when you know she will not mirror or acknowledge them. And you wonder how much of a masochist you really are in heart.

The sun has long gone to sleep and the busy voices around you have lessened significantly as you find yourself lacking for anything to do until the sun sets overseas.

You're used to your schedule shifting by time zones; the irony of your life always comes down to how best to use the loss of light to move unnoticed isn't lost on you. And suddenly you're not so surprised at how easy it was at first to let yourself vanish from her bedroom in the shield of the night.

That's why you decide not to go home, but to stay visible and perhaps slightly tipsy next to warm bodies and heating liquor.

You tell yourself you just want to make sure she's gone home first; he will need her at her best tomorrow. They will need her rested, to keep him grounded. You serve at the pleasure of the President, and there will be little pleasure with the peacekeeper in the room agitated from lack of sleep.

You're not really checking on her, you're simply doing your job, making sure the wheels of the machinery will function as strategies of war and death are settled.

Your mantra of self-delusion works as you walk through the hallway, as you hear the sleepy hums of computers left running. It works as you reach her office and see her door slightly ajar, a small ray of light dancing up the opposite wall. She's still in there and you're sure you'll see your briefing books on her desk as you casually but quickly walk by.

It's not only your recent self-induced convictions, but your lower limbs as well that lose function as you hear the soft sound from behind the door.

You know the only reason you're hearing it is because she doesn't know you're listening. You know that the second she sees you it will stop and she will look up and her face will bear no witness to the heart wrenching muffled noises you just heard.

But you still move closer, you know she won't let you in, but you can't bear to hear her cry. It shatters your world, your whole existence, to realise she's hurting.

You feel like a fool, you can't understand how you thought she'd be above feelings like these. She hasn't seen the things you've been through; she hasn't found a way to cope with the guilt and the realisation of what you do.

"CJ…" It's the only thing you can think of to start with. The only thing that doesn't sound like you just dropped in for a chat. You want her to know that it's okay, that you don't judge her for her tears. You show it in your tone, her name being the word of emotion and trust.

"Go away." It wasn't what you expected. No effort to hide her tears, her voice conveying her hurt, not a strained attempt of normalcy as she barely breathed the words.

You choose to follow the emotion of her speech, not the words themselves.

She won't respond to kind words of understanding, it will only make her feel weak, build up her defence. So you walk inside to sit on her couch, not saying a word, watching her from the slight distance you keep.

She's turned away from you, her chair facing the dark glass, slightly fogged by her breath and tainted by the earlier downfall of water outside. It's the outline of her side you see from the one dim light of her shaded light bulb on the little table by your side; the planes of her face become a study in shades of shadows. It's the rolling movement of the salty liquid on her cheeks you see, not the tears themselves.

"They're children." She's not talking to you, you just happen to be sitting in the room she's confiding in. Her voice is tired and raspy, showing signs of a long day and revealing that she was crying long before you got there.

You know you shouldn't be here, shouldn't be comforting her, caring for her, wishing you could wipe the tears from her face. You should be running, fighting for the safety of your sanity and emotional survival.

But again your body betrays you as it stands, slowly making its way to lean against her desk. To your surprise, she doesn't move. She makes no attempt to get away from your sudden closeness and you allow your body to relax ever so slightly. Too much would be disastrous, but being too tense around her would have the same effect.

You can see her better now, the darkness of the complexion just under her eyes, the redness of the same. The fine lines on her face seem damp and you fight against your itching fingers and aching skin that wants to touch it.

"We are asking them to die, and I'm not even sure why." She confesses; her frustration over the situation evident. She knows why, you both do. Only you know what disaster would look like if you didn't send these children to die in the service of your country. It pains you as much as it does her, but you know the need to fight the cause in a different light than she ever will. Sometimes you envy her for not knowing, this isn't one of those times.

"It's the right thing to do." How you settled for your weakest argument surprises you, and apparently her too because she finally looks up at you, her eyes searching for some evidence that there is more to your statement.

"Is it?" It's the first time you've seen it; she really doubts your reasons. It's not just fear and concern as you thought. Her eyes are wider, her gaze pleading as she hopes you are going to justify her own thoughts, put things right in her mind.

"It's the only way." You restate your argument, but she still needs more. "It's the sacrifice we make to prevent mankind from self-destruction." She's heard the reasons; she's read what could happen. And she turns away, a nod of her head in defeat as her mind lines back up to what she knows to be true. She mourns her doubts, and you wish she could keep them; it makes her feel more human. But it will break her and you can't let that happen.

"I know." Her whisper is one of sadness and you cannot stop your hand from resting as a comfort on her shoulder. If you could pluck the hurt from her heart, you would without hesitation.

She stands and you get ready to move from her path, but she catches you off guard and you don't have time to react before her body presses against yours.

It's as if you can finally breathe again when her lips crush against yours and you feel your chest inflate, your body tingle and you hear yourself moan into the kiss as if from a distance.

Her hand buries in your hair and your body arches into her. You don't think. Your body refuses to let you as it does all the decision-making for you. She moulds so perfectly into you, her lips teasing your heart through the hunger of your kiss. It's a desperate search, a quest to quench a dire thirst.

You can't tell if it was the painful jab of your heart or if your body momentarily relented power to your mind, but somehow you've pulled away and you're not sure how it happened.

You don't look at her, afraid of what you'll see. You can't speak; there is nothing you can think of to say.

So you walk out, head bowed down to lessen the weight in your chest. She makes no effort to stop you and you're grateful this time because you've arrogated her tears and you can't stop them from flooding your eyes any longer.

And you can't stop the thoughts from ripping at your heart.

She didn't let you in when you saw her cry; she let you see because she didn't care what you thought of her.

Instead you ripped your own chest open and displayed it to her, and somehow you're sure she didn't even notice.

You don't feel the rain on your way home, nor do you realise you left your coat in her office until the water soaks through the fabric of your suit and trails down your back, and you agnise that you'll never be able to let go of the memory of just how her lips taste.

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_Thank you for reading. I will not let her suffer forever, don't worry:)_


	6. Borrowed Words

_Next chapter will be the last one. Thank you to Sapho's Daughter for you wonderful review. _

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**Chapter Six: Borrowed Words.**

There isn't much of the night you can remember. Everything after she kissed you is hazed, as if her lips cast some sort of spell on you. Or maybe it was the endless line of multicoloured drinks offered to you by pealed off suits looking for something besides alcohol to make them feel less numb.

You didn't turn down a single beverage, offering them a fake smile as payment.

You tried, you really did try. You wanted to feel as much as he did, wanted to forget for just a moment.

His shirt was too crisp for having been worn all day and his hair was a bit too neat for him to blend in with the other souls lost for a way out of their bad days.

In a slick voice he'd told you that he had been watching you all night and you couldn't remember having seen him before he sat down by your side. But he offered you a never ending line of green, blue and clear liquids; from which you took the umbrella and tore it into little pieces while he continued to let you know how your eyes resembled something you cannot remember.

You decided he'd made an effort. That he was as good as anyone but the truth was that you just wanted to stop remembering the feel of her body against yours.

So you didn't stop his hands as they started running over your back, but you frowned at how rough and unimpressionable his touch was. And as he leaned over to breathe drunkenly in your ear how much he wanted to take you home, you accepted, even though his breath made you slightly sick and his words were all wrong.

It was when his chapped lips slammed against yours, making you think of stranded whales and bad memories from behind the gym at recess that you reconsidered.

It was the first time in your life that you ignored a drunken man calling you names as you walked out, leaving him with the scraps of your paper umbrella and realising that despite his best efforts to choke you on his tongue, her lips were still the memory closest to your skin.

You were still escaping in the shield of night and you sullenly wondered if this was the path of your life.

----------------------

You had tossed and turned all night and you continued with the mental equivalent of the same as you made the world ready for the final command of the man in the office.

You had been avoiding her and this time you were sure she'd noticed. The unexplained absence of the Deputy NSA at times of war wasn't one the Chief of Staff would have the luxury to forget.

But you couldn't shake your hurt and anger long enough to be professional in her presence anyway. You're angry at her for toying with you, for not realising how much she's hurting you or perhaps not caring. You're even angrier with yourself for allowing her to do this to you, for allowing her to get to you. But most of all you're petrified because you know the sight of her will rip your chest open and you will invite her in to pour acid in your wounds again.

Still you're not ready for just how her presence will affect you as your office door swings open with force and her seething frame appears in your doorway.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" That was about the last thing you expected from her ad you shock must me evident in your face because her confidence seems to rise as she steps inside and slams your door shut. You find yourself taking a step back, cursing yourself for showing your weakness as the back of your thighs hit your desk. Mentally slapping yourself for lending time to the thought of how stunning she looks as her rage flushes her skin and the passionate force of her words is directed at you alone. You feel a sense of power when you realise that you are the one that has made her blood boil so.

"Excuse me?!" You decide to hide your shock behind anger, making sure you only let her see so much of it because laying all your cards on the table will leave you even more vulnerable for her bite.

"You think you can just treat me like some damned toy?!" Your view on the world turns surreal as she snatches the words from your heart and uses them as her own.

"Wha…" You can't think of anything to say because you're not quite sure what is going on.

Her hands are shaking as she advances on you, her eyes shooting fiery flames of hurt that catches you so off guard you can do nothing but try and close your open mouth as she continues to speak.

"How can you sit in that room, talking to me like nothing has happened? You come in, pretend you actually give a damn and then just run away! Why do you…" You don't let her finish because your heart has reached its limit and is now exploding fiercely hot lava into your chest.

"Because you're breaking my heart!" You cry out as your eyes fill with the salty liquid of your body's turmoil. You no longer care that your body is shaking or that you are baring your throat to her emotional blade. Her evident shock at your outburst doesn't faze you because you no longer care what happens to you after this. "Because every time I see you I am reminded of how I miss being inside your body but how you'll never let me inside your walls!" You can hear your voice shouting as if from a distant mountain, her face is blurred from your vision by the salty rain from your eyes. Your body is cold and numb so you can feel every vein pumping the stinging liquid of your fractured heart.

"I don't understand…" She trails off, her anger replaced with confusion and that soft demeanour that always breaks your will to fight her. But this time you never had a will to begin with, only the instinct to survive.

"I'm the toy." You speak quietly at the floor as your strength subsides. "And I can't be with you because you can't see it." The remains of your pride vanish as you speak those words, the words you've been afraid to think too loudly because they hurt too much.

"How…?" Her whisper barely reaches your ear and even if you can't look at her you can hear from the way the air carries her single word that she is shaking her head.

"I love you CJ." You can't help the wry chuckle breaking through your tear-soaked voice at the absurdity of the turn your conversation has taken. "I'm in love with you. I can't be your release of frustration because it's killing me." You bare your soul to her fangs, offering her the chance to rip it to shreds with her words.

Instead she leaves it exposed for the elements of nature to slowly pick at it until it bleeds to death. You can't describe the void left in you as she walks out that door. You'd cry, except your tears seem trapped behind the numbness of your broken self.

Instead you body surrenders to defeat and slides to the floor. Empty.

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_She will smile in the last one, I promise._


	7. Bittersweet Salvation

_A great and heartfelt Thank-you to Sapho's Daughter and Token for your stunning and uplifting words. We have come to the end of this journey and I thank you so much for reading!_

_Jellicos_

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**Chapter seven: Bittersweet Salvation. **

You find it odd that your back is hurting so, until you open your eyes and realise it's resting on the hard concrete floor. Pulling yourself up from your resting position you realise you fell asleep. Looking at the clock on your office desk you wonder how you even got an hour of time alone in this building.

It's when it dawns on you why you fell asleep in the first place that you feel the world crashing in on you at full speed. The feelings your body was too exhausted to deal with then come barging though the door and snatch you from the sweet state of unawareness.

You remember. Your body would never forget the weakness it felt as your vocal chords lent their services to your heart. You told her you loved her and she left, walked out your door and in her wake you lost your reasons.

The air around you suddenly seems too thick to breathe and you lungs are cracking from the lack of oxygen flowing through them, yet you can't find it in you to care. You know your life shouldn't revolve around her, that somehow you'll survive the pain and your legs will keep carrying you through you every day life. But the pain is so close to your heart right now that to think of things beyond it seems unreasonable at best.

Somehow you manage to stand and brush the dust of you suit. Not because you care, but because you have responsibilities you can't forget just because you feel sorry for yourself. And that's exactly how you've chosen to characterise your feelings right now. Because you know heartbreak, you've been there before, but it's never been like this and you have decided that it can only be because of self-pity. And in that light you refuse to wallow, but rather bury yourself in your work.

Thankful for the little mirror in your bag, you fix your tear swollen eyes before opening the door that leads to the outside world, and her. You don't know how seeing her again will affect you, and right now you don't want to think about it. Frankly, you don't want to think about anything that has to do with her, you are tired of hurting.

Instead you decide to hide in the comfort of the shimmering lights in the room of deadly choices, knowing there won't be a human in sight at this time of the evening, but maybe it will give you a break from your painful thoughts.

Instead you find your breath catch in your throat as you notice her hunched over frame folding itself over the large dark table, her feet planted firmly on the ground while her body seems to be motionlessly fleeing the chair and instead throwing itself over the flat surface of the overly varnished desktop.

You can't do this, not now. The sting behind your eyes lets you know it won't take much for your hurt to leak from your eyes. So you turn; the sight of her so vivid in your mind that the solid doorframe jumps up on you and stops you with a much too loud sound. You can hear her head snap up from its resting place and you quietly utter a word of fright and panic.

"Kate." Your heart starts beating at the softness of her voice and you hold on to the blasted doorframe for support as you hear the rustle of her attire indicating her body's advances towards you.

"Don't." You plead, not sure she understands the full dept of what you are asking her not to do. You will your limbs to start moving, to run, to flee, but your muscles seem to have transformed by her voice and now you are left with no option but to fight her off with your cracking words.

"I… I'm sorry." She whispers from right behind you and you bite your lip hard as to redirect the pain from your chest to your face, to force your body's focus on the bite and not to release the wetness from your eyes. It takes a while before your mind registers her words, it has been too busy focusing on her proximity and scent and the soft crack in her voice.

Something starts to move within you and without asking your permission, your body turns to face her, unsure of how to handle the declaration of her words.

You see her face now and you turn angry at your eyes for fooling you into thinking she's been crying. There's a delicate hint of redness under those piercing greens that you wouldn't have detected if she wasn't standing so close.

"I didn't realise." She says again, and now you start to understand. She didn't understand how you felt, it wasn't that she didn't care, and now she feels guilty. You know her well enough to know she hates that feeling more than most, and now she's waiting for you to tell her that she didn't do anything wrong, she wants you to lift the burden of her conscience off her chest and carry it for yourself. You tell yourself you don't mind because you don't care. Not anymore.

"It's okay." You tell her but speak to the floor, almost laughing yourself at how unconvincing you sounded. But all thoughts of humour are lost as you feel her palm against your cheek.

Your body is ever the traitor as it leans against the touch and your eyes flutter shut even when you silently yell at them not too. "Please…" You whisper for her to stop as your body continues to undermine your argument.

"It's not… I… I couldn't tell you… I didn't want to see…I…" Her stuttering catches you more off guard than any of her previous uncharacteristic behaviour and it gets through to your eyelids who open up for the light around you and let the sight of her face crash against you. You can only stare as you identify the thin line of water running down her right cheek.

"I love you." You never thought those words would ever have that effect on you, but something within you cracks open and you tear yourself away from her, not able to hear anything but the blood pumping in your ears.

"You...bitch!" Your voice roars through the soundproof room as your mind clouds with rage and you can't see the shocked expression on her face. "How dare you?!" Your anger is muffled by sobs and you have to lean your hands against the flatness of a table in order to stand somewhat upright. "You…can't… can't toy with me…like this…" You plead heart wrenchingly through your desperate cries of unrestrained sorrow. "How…" You can't utter words to ask how she can play you like this, how she can expect you not to break at her manipulation.

So you fight as she pulls you up from the table, you try to hit her chest as she forces you into her arms, but you relent as she wraps her body around you and holds you while you shake, your tears staining the jacket of her suit and your hands creating wrinkles in it as they grasp at it, holding on for dear life.

"I love you." She whispers in your ear and you keep fighting her without letting her go.

"No… no…" You breathe your thoughts over and over again, forcing yourself not to believe her as your head shakes against her neck. But your hold on her shoulders tightens in a desperate attempt to keep her close though you know she can never get too close, perhaps not even close enough right now.

"I love you." Her breath tells your ear again and this time your voice cannot utter any mantras of self-salvation. Instead you use all your remaining strength to push her up against the wall, your hands feverishly searching for the skin under her blouse as your lips slam against hers in a despairing search to feel her. As you sense her resistance, your panic grows.

"Kate…" She gasps your name as her lips tear from yours and you feel their loss immediately. "No, this isn't…" Her words get cut short by your fierce attack of her neck and the loud groan emanating from the back of her throat. You could never get enough of those sounds, or the taste of her skin, and you know that losing this connection with her now is terrifying you. You need to feel her, know she's real. "Stop." Your mind suddenly clears as her arms grab yours and firmly push you away, yet not letting their grip of your wrists lessen.

"CJ… please…" You plead needily and you see the sadness in her darkened eyes. "I need you." You feel her grip soften and her eyes show her momentary relentment before her head gives a single shake.

"Not here, not like this." She tells you and somehow her voice gives no room for argument. Yet you're not sure what she means, you can't remember her ever objecting to the manner and place in which you've done this before. "I want to do this right." Her eyes find her shoes and you know it's because of the slight absurdity of her statement in your situation, yet you can't help the muscles in your face that pull on the corner of your lips as you realise what she's saying. "Come home with me." She whispers before she looks up and your smile transfers itself to her now slightly swollen lips at the sight of your face. "I want to take you out." She blushes slightly as she again averts her gaze, but her smile doesn't fade and neither does yours. "And if you'll let me, I'd like to make love to you tonight." Her words are spoken so softly you can barely make them out, but as they reach your ears your body swells until it bursts in a soft chuckle tainted by previous tears.

"I'd like that." You whisper back as your thumb and forefinger cup her chin to force her eyes to mirror yours.

"Yeah?" Her hopeful eyes search yours for confirmation, and in case they missed it you offer extra reassurance.

"Yeah." You gently press your smiling lips to hers as you feel your chest rise under the pressure of the bubbles inside. You keep smiling as your head falls to just below the crook of her neck and you sigh in relief as you feel her exhale and wrap her arms just a little bit tighter around you.

Because you do care and you do feel, and right now you've never been happier for it. You know there is more talking to be done, and more hurt in the future. You know it's not going to be this simple and these won't be the last tears you shed because of her. But as you once again hear the air from her lungs whisper her love in your hair, you know it will all be worth it in the end.

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_I hope you enjoyed the story; the rest is completely up to your imagination :) Thank you._

_Jellicos_


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